


A Perp's Game

by Bewscuttles



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Mobtale, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mafia AU, Mafia Sans, Reader Is Not Frisk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7174772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bewscuttles/pseuds/Bewscuttles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a hot-headed detective on the case against the Gang, the most powerful of the criminal Underground's mob families. Your partner Boozepants (though he prefers BP) is a hard-boiled veteran who curbs your awful temper. Together, you're determined to end the corruption and illegal activity that has infiltrated the heart of Ebott City.</p><p>Though no one knows who's part of the Gang, you have your suspicions about a certain newspaper vendor. He may seem like a harmless, pun-loving skeleton, but you can tell he's bad news. You just don't have proof. Yet.</p><p>Interconnected short stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off two-word prompts (so far). Not exactly in chronological order. 
> 
> If Undertale were a buddy cop show.

 

||Dead Ends||

* * *

 

"There's gotta be more than this!" You slam your hands on the desk, jostling the photographs. Seething with rage, you swipe off one photo in particular: It's the cleaned-out insides of a warehouse down by the river on Ebott's Eastside. Something had obviously been there before, from the indents of crates to the tell-tale scorches of fire magic, but knowing the Chief, he'll say it's just a warehouse, that there's no conclusive evidence—despite the area being notorious for bootlegging.

"Not really," says BP glumly. He wrings his hands together, frowning down at the photos. His tail makes swirly pig-tailed patterns in the air. "Was cleaned out when I got there."

"Damn." You hang your head.

This had been your last lead. An anonymous informant had dropped off a tip about the warehouse in the Gang's territory. By the time BP ran over with the camera, they'd scattered like pigeons in a park, the likely contraband long gone. It was infuriating.

"We still got the Grillby lead," suggests BP, but his heart's not in the words.

You shake your head. "You know he ain't a snitch. Soon as drink water than talk."

"Right," he mutters. He flops back into his chair, sinking deeply into the upholstery.

A part of you wants to drop off, too. It just seems so pointless when every lead, every tip reaches the same result: the Gang one step ahead, the goods vanished, and nothing left to show but worthless evidence. Damn it all, but if isn't incentive to switch careers.

That's the problem with this gig. Cops and gumshoes by the mile, and yet nothing ever gets done. Your precinct is a hotbed of instability and corruption—that's the problem when the majority of cops are dogs—and with a guy like the Chief in charge, catching crooks is more a side job compared to press conferences and newspaper interviews. He's the type of guy to prioritize helping little old ladies cross the street if it means publicity, rather than the invisible, thankless work the job is known for.

And with the Gang as your target, life is infinitely more trying. They're the premier monster gang in Ebott, among a number of ringleaders for the criminal Underground. Aiming for an arrest with them is like waiting on four aces: nearly impossible, a hopeless shot in the dark, and all bets off. It doesn't help that they're rumored to rub elbows with royalty. You're up against a stacked set of odds.

You eye BP's desk. The photographs scattered along it are in messy piles, each with a theme: previous bootlegging locations, bloodstains and dust, possible weapons, mugshots of potential Gang members. Underneath the photos is a map of the entire city, where you and BP have drawn circles around places with noted Gang ties. The Eastside is littered in ink, while the Westside and Southside have been entirely crossed off. That's the human gangs territory, and from what your co-workers say, the Gang doesn't get on with them. In the middle of the map, in an area everyone agrees is neutral ground, you've circled off three possible sites: Grillby's, ostensibly a restaurant and grill, though you have enormous doubts about that; Muffet's, a bakery that shares a list of clientele with Grillby's; and one last place just a block off from the station, sitting on the corner, the one mark BP scoffed at when you first proposed it.

You glare accusingly at the last place, a tumble of curses at the tip of your tongue. The circle is mocking you, you're pretty sure.

"That's not healthy," says BP. He pulls out a cigarette, lights up, and takes a deep drag. "Trust me, little buddy. Don't take it personally."

He sounds so old and wise, but you know for a fact he's only a few years older than you. BP is the Chief's punching bag; it's the reason why he'd been on a seemingly unsolvable case for four years without a partner. He's already jaded and cynical, even at his young age. You'd never thought a cat could have frown lines and a five o'clock shadow before you met him, but that's monsters for you.

"Sure, sure," you grumble. You rub the bridge of your nose. "You say that, but it feels personal. Like they're messin' with us."

"They got a way of doing that." He nods his head sagely. "If I had a nickel every time I got a call about 'em boozing, then I show up and find nothing but an empty bottle of hooch, lemme tell you, buddy, I'd be a real sheik."

You laugh, but it comes out bitter. "Why's it never so easy?"

"'Cause life ain't easy," he says, blowing a ring of smoke. "And," he adds, flicking off ash, "you can take that to the bank."

"Can't cash it in." You hunch over the map and photos. If you stare at them long enough, maybe something will happen. Yeah, and you'll suddenly sprout wings and fly.

"You can at the Bank of Life," he says airily.

"Ha! You're in one of your moods again." BP has a tendency to switch from nervous wreck, to sly and cynical, to hard-boiled vet, and then back again at any given time. It's part his dramatic personality and part because the Chief is the type to encourage such coping methods. You suppose being an actor on the side helps the transitions.

"No I'm not," he says petulantly. "I'm being wise."

"I met pigeons wiser'n you."

He scowls. "Who's the one in a mood?"

"Guilty," you say, hands up in surrender. You point at the map. "But it ain't my fault."

"Maybe you need a break."

"A break's the last thing I need," you mutter darkly.

"How 'bout a lunch break? It's about that time."

You glance over your shoulder to the end of the pen, where the Chief's frost-tinted office door stands ominously. There's no shadow behind the window, but that doesn't mean he isn't in. He could be standing in the back wall, lying in wait for any sign of mooching. He apparently likes to pop out of nowhere and frighten people, as BP can attest.

"Think we can?" you ask skeptically. The Chief has to approve any and all break times. It's not a concrete rule in the manual, but the Chief's a real taskmaster with this kind of thing. He likes to inspect uniforms before sending his boys out into the public eye.

BP looks at the door warily, a visible shiver running down his spine. A series of emotions flash across his face. Giving himself a little shake, he turns to you and smiles a small, cautious smile. "If we're quiet, maybe...?"

 

* * *

 

After twenty minutes of hemming and hawing, the two of you finally grab your coats and sneak out the station. It's a cool spring day: the breeze is sweet and curls around your hair, sweeping down your trench coat to the fluttering ends of your dress. Normally you'd be wearing slacks and a tie like BP, but one dressy Sunday later and the Chief insisted on the gowns. Made it mandatory, the dandy. He'd even gone out of his way to buy you dresses that looked similar to the standard uniform.

"Can't have my favorite detective under-dressed," he'd said, _tsk_ ing when you'd tried to give them back. "It would be a discredit to the force! We _must_ look the part!"

BP pulls out his sunglasses (he believes they make him look official) and tugs at his necktie, rolling his neck along his shoulders. "Hate these things," he groans.

You smile a little smugly. For all their impracticality, at least dresses don't require ties.

BP leads the way down the sidewalk, pulling out another cigarette and making small talk about his newest audition. Apparently it's a pantomime featuring death and drama with some singing too, despite the whole mute thing, and oh, there's a part specifically for a cat monster that has a few dozen costume changes, most of them tramps and jesters. You don't ask who the director-slash-writer is, but you have a good feeling BP would never have tried out if he knew the truth. As you discuss the likelihood of his being picked (you're quite sure he's in), you find yourself nearing the corner, and the ball of anger you'd been pushing aside flares right back up.

One would think a newspaper stand would be completely innocuous, but then they hadn't met the guy running it. It's a small stand, comparatively, with the trappings of a kid's fort: shaped like a small house, a wooden counter with a push-bell, a hand-made sign that looks like it was written by a child, and the interior cramped by the glut of papers tucked into the walls. From where you stand a pair of unpolished shoes lie on the counter, and one foot shakes in calm time. The body connected to the legs is hidden in shadow.

"Oh, don't start," moans BP, but you ignore him, marching up to the stand and slamming your hands on the counter, trapping the shoes on both sides.

"You cheat," you hiss, eyes narrowed.

Now that you're closer, you can see the stand's owner sitting deeply back into his chair, leaning his weight so it's standing on two legs. His eyes (or eye sockets, rather) are closed, and he seems to be snoring, blissfully unaware of your fury. He's dressed up today, surprisingly, or at least as dressed up as he ever gets, wearing unpressed slacks held up by suspenders, a wrinkled white dress shirt, and a ragged flat cap perched at the edge of his skull. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing big white bones, and his hands are stuffed into his pockets. He looks so carefree, it stokes the anger a shade hotter.

Without bothering with the bells and whistles—both you and Mr. I-Don't-Give-a-Hoot know he isn't sleeping—you say, "How'd you figure us out, huh?"

BP, who'd been standing off to the side with an long-suffering look, walks up next to you and sighs. "You're not allowed to interrogate outside the station."

"He knew!" you say, rounding on him. "How else did the stuff disappear?"

He winces and raises his hands up in surrender. "I'm not arguing with you."

"real bearcat, ain't she?"

You whip around and glare. The stand's owner has his eyes open, thick-lidded and drowsy, and he's watching you with a practiced eye, his white pupils gleaming. The first time you'd met him, you'd been a little frightened; after all, skeletons aren't a pleasant sight for humans, and the perpetual grin and unblinking eyes are rather unnerving. But after a year on the force and another year dealing with your suspicions and his cryptic remarks, his appearance is merely an extension of his irritating personality.

"You've got some nerve," you snap, "sittin' here 'round the corner, actin' all innocent."

"ain't i, though?" he asks, shrugging. His deep voice is always a step away from laughter, but now it's just a finger-length away. He winks. "c'mon, look at me. i'm just a poor skeleton tryin'na make a livin'."

You snort. "What a bag of bull. Everyone here knows you're a deadbeat."

It takes a good minute of silence before you stiffen in realization. Next to you BP shakes his head in exasperation while the skeleton careens wildly in his chair, shaking from silent laughter.

" _Don't_ ," you warn. You're flushed with embarrassment.

"good one," he says anyway, grin widening. "you gotta talent there, doll."

"Get lost," you grumble. You look away. "Just—" You stumble for words as he stares on with amusement. When the righteous anger overcomes the humiliation, you ease right back into your bluster as if you weren't interrupted. "I know what you are," you say ominously, pointing a finger, though he seems unaffected. "And lemme tell you, you walkin' cemetery, next time you pull a dirty trick like that, I'm gonna catch you fair and square, and then you'll rue the day you picked a fight with me, ya hear?"

He simply shrugs, as if he isn't being threatened by a cop. "i hear ya pretty well for a guy without ears."

" _You—_ "

"I think that's enough for one day," says BP with a sigh, a hand on your shoulder. It's a good thing, too, because you're very close to jumping the counter and showing him what you learned at the police academy.

"Don't think this's over," you bite out. Passersby watch in confusion as you're dragged away by BP. You wave a fist at him. "I'll catch you at your game, just you wait!"

"lookin' forward to it," he says cheerfully, flicking off a lazy salute.


	2. Bleep Forger

||Bleep Forger||

 

* * *

 

It's one of those long nights, when the lights are dim in the station and the purple evening sky floats hazily in the background, that you're poring over another set of documents. Though it's not even your shift — you're actually far past it, now that it's eight — you're not yet ready to call it quits. There's a connection in your mind, a vague clicking of mental gears, and if you stop you'll lose your train of thought completely. Already the pieces of the puzzle are coming together.

The first document is an incident report from the Westside, where the human gangs thrive. It's not relevant to your case on the surface, but there's one detail that had you grabbing it from your co-worker's pile, reading through it carefully: the counterfeit gold coins.

A recent spate of counterfeits in the last few months have flooded Ebott's banks, threatening inflation and rioting from the civilian populace. And curiously, the fakes are only coins, the traditional form of monster currency, rather than human paper bills. Despite deliberate efforts on the Chief's part — he was infuriated by the whole situation, as he had invested quite a bit in his MTT brand, and no low-down scum would topple his empire — no one in the force had found anything related to a counterfeit machine, nor the masterminds behind the operation. Officers who worked on monster cases or in the monster part of town were put on overtime and forced to report directly to the Chief.

Although humans use a mix of both currencies, they tend towards the lighter paper money. So what would a notorious human supremacist gang, as your co-worker noted in the report, want from counterfeit gold coins?

The next two documents are far more straightforward in some respects. A bootlegging scheme by lesser non-Gang players, caught in the act on the East River; then a fake storefront for fur and scale grooming, where a safe full of counterfeits was recovered. The two reports are similar: nearly all monsters, with few humans; every one of them had criminal backgrounds; and all are non-Gang. Which meant either the Gang isn't part of this, or (you much prefer this theory) they are far better at hiding their involvement. But there's one thing that doesn't seem to fit: Why would anyone bother with so many fake coins?

It seems stupid, if not obnoxious, for the guy behind the scheme to overflow the market. What's the point of a counterfeit if the real stuff became so devalued? Huge safes full of them, sacks of the stuff hiding behind fake walls, thousands of coins crowding out the real deal — it just doesn't make sense from where you stand.

And then there's the last few reports: monsters disappearing from their homes without a trace. This, while depressing, is not very surprising. Monsters, like humans, often get caught in the crossfire of the gangs, perhaps for displeasing the local boss, or seeing things they weren't meant to see, or for not paying protection money in time. Sometimes human gangs have initiations that involve kidnapping monsters; sometimes a monster will enter the wrong territory at the worst times; but in the end, no one finds the dust.

But this is different. The monsters described in the missing persons reports have no felonies to their name, no scandalous activities, and are generally normal, typical civilians. There's no trace of any break-ins, or of intentionally leaving the house, or of a struggle. It seems, by the testimonies and descriptions, that these monster simply vanished in the middle of their homes. And no one would notice until a few days later.

The final report is what keeps you brooding in your chair: A young lagomorphic humanoid boy was tucked into bed a few weeks ago by his mother. They talked about the tooth fairy; they put his lost tooth underneath his pillow. She left him with the nightlight on. When she woke up in the morning he'd disappeared, his bed unchanged from that night. When she looked under the pillow, there it was: a counterfeit coin, his tooth gone.

You sigh. That disappearance had been dubbed the Tooth Fairy Kidnapping by the newspapers. As if the original story hadn't been morbid enough.

But it was the glue connecting all the files together. Whoever is behind the counterfeits may also be behind the kidnappings. You just need to figure out a motive.

When you check the clock, you find it's a quarter to nine. Without thinking you grab your coat and slip it on, stretching out your tired neck. You need to take a walk and think on things.

BP looks up from his desk, his eyes scrunched up to such a degree you can't make out the pupils. "You clockin' out already?"

"No," you grumble, running a hand through your hair. "Need some air."

"You're not gonna try anythin', right?" he asks suspiciously.

You scowl. "Why would I?"

"'Cause you make it a habit," he says, eyeing your clenched fists.

"I ain't gonna start nothin'. Just need some damn air."

"Easy, little weirdo. Don't look at me like I murdered your beau." He shakes his head at you, surreptitiously glances at the Chief's office, then shows you a strangled paw that you think means a thumbs-up. "Be back quick, all righty?"

"Back in a jiff," you promise with a mock salute.

 

* * *

 

You wonder if there's a union for newspaper sellers. Because if there is, they probably wouldn't approve of their precious papers being used as gift wrap for a concession stand. The whole of the stand is dressed to the nines in gray and black print, the editorials wrapped around the walls, the headlines atop the sloped roof, and the colored comics the crown jewel placed just under the counter, superheroes and GIs and good ol' Milquetoast peering up invitingly at potential customers. You don't quite know how Mr. I-Don't-Think-Work-Is-Productive managed to stick them all into place, and with such precision, but despite yourself and your sense of propriety, you're impressed.

It becomes clear the reason for the refurbishment when you come closer. The human newsie the skeleton employs sits on top of the counter, beaming at you in greeting, wearing such a beatific smile you almost return it — but you control yourself. Sure, the kid may look as harmless as a Dickens character, but your trust would be misplaced if they run with Sans the skeleton. It's not the first time gangsters hire kids to run for them. Not that you had proof of Sans being a gangster, but your gut is your intuition and it doesn't fall for nothing.

They're a cute kid, though, you have to admit. Their hair is a disheveled brown mess tucked under a small flat cap, and the rest of them is just as childishly unkempt: a woolen coat atop a patchy striped sweater, a pair of worn shorts, tall grass-stained boots, and a yellowing bandage on their left knee. An anonymous smudge dots their chubby cheek. You have half a mind to pull out your kerchief and wipe it off.

"Kiddo," you say in greeting, waggling your fingers. "Why're you out so late?"

The newsie simply smiles and shakes their head, kicking their legs into the empty air.

You peer around them into the inside of the stand. Sans isn't there.

"Where's the bum?" you ask, frowning. For some reason, you hadn't thought him the kind of boss to leave a kid working at night. But then again, it fits his profile.

"right here."

A hand grazes your rear, a harsh whisper against the fabric — and you jump a foot off the ground. Sans stands innocently at your side, his head level with your chin. It takes a moment for everything to click together — _did he touch_  — and when it does, you see red.

" _You rat sunuva_ —" You lunge at him, aiming for his nonexistent throat, but he's faster than you think, sidestepping your hands entirely with a fluidness that's mind-boggling for his size. You're not deterred; you whip around abruptly and grab his suspenders, pulling him to you. He's heavy, surprisingly for a skeleton, but you have the momentum. You force him to tiptoe until he's eye-to-eye.

"gee, lady," he says, sounding perfectly happy with how things panned out, "never knew you wanted to jump my bones." He doesn't pull away, instead relaxing into your grip, his hands deep in his pockets.

You glower. "Awful stuff."

"not my best work," he agrees solemnly. Then he winks. "but ya gotta admit, i've got a real _eye_ for jokes."

"You slay me," you say flatly. "Lemme return the favor."

"all right, no need for that, ma'am," he says, his grin widening. "i'll be a good boy."

You lean forward and give him the ol' hawk-eye stare that gets even the K9 unit fidgety. But Sans isn't like most people; he seems more amused than afraid, though you note with some pleasure that he's sweating a little. Once you're sure he's paying close attention, you say, in that scary voice you've practiced by yourself, "Goose me again, pal, and I'll make you lay an egg."

Apparently it has the opposite effect: He starts snickering, loudly, and pats your stiff shoulder.

"keep tellin' ya, you've got a real funny bone. did ya practice that in a mirror?"

You loosen your grip and look away, feeling your face heat up. Suddenly you wish you'd taken BP with you. He'd have stopped you from embarrassing yourself.

"Shut your yap," you grumble.

"hey, hey," says Sans, "no need for that." Without warning he slips from beneath your hands like a ghost, twists sharply, and then he's next to your side again, wrapping a friendly arm around your tensed upper back. "we're all friends here. right, kid?"

The newsie you'd nearly forgotten about in the fuss gives him a thumbs-up. The kid rocks back and forth, back and forth, smiling a playful smile. Sans walks you up to the counter and lets go, patting you one last time. He opens up the back of the stand — there's a hidden door somewhere you'd never been able to find — and sits down at his usual seat, laying his head on his knuckles.

"I ain't your friend," you point out, crossing your arms nervously. "I don't befriend suspected criminals."

"sure," he says loftily. He and the newsie share a crafty look. "and frisk here has a voice for radio."

The newsie throws a few hand gestures at you; thankfully, being appointed to the monster side of Ebott means you're well-versed in hand signs. They say, with a kiddie flourish, _I'm good at speaking Braille!_

"always been dotty," adds Sans, pointing a thumb at the kid.

You stare at the two of them, unimpressed.

"killjoy." Sans shakes his head, but you can tell by his eyes that he's pleased as punch, perhaps from the expression you're making. The kid looks a little more downcast, as if they were expecting something more. Well, you don't play that sort of game.

You turn away and browse through the major papers: _The Ebott Sun_ , _The Daily Round_ , _The MTT Report_ , _The Word_ , and the rest of the tabloid rags you've never bothered with. Most of them are similar enough: reporters digging up dirt on the Chief, on the force, or going after the mayor and the King; then there's the practical articles about the counterfeits and the banks, and advice on what to do with them; the more womanly spiels about home-making and children (you wrinkle your face at that — the newsie copies it perfectly, the rascal); then there's the usual moral outrage, the cries for justice, church, and the importance of a healthy SOUL; and hidden in the back of the stacks, you find a copy of the little independently-owned, monster-run paper you like to keep tabs of. It's called _The Echo Flower_ , after the eponymous magical plant, and it focuses solely on monster community business. The headlines read in a bold font:

 

> **MONSTER KIDNAPPER STILL ON THE LOOSE!**  
>  Youth Snatched From Bedside! Monsters, Take Heed!  
>  _By A.N. Other_
> 
>        Once again the Community is ransacked by a nefarious suspect, an unidentified criminal of amoral character, who chances through our neighborhoods in the hope of snatching innocent children from their beds. Another young victim was abducted last night, at a quarter past one o'clock (it is suspected, though unverified; see addendum 1 for details), through unknown means and magics. Youth described as "bunny-like," "of two feet, five inches," "soft white fur," and "an amiable personality." If seen, please contact your local operator; ask on topic of missing persons and children.  
>        When questioned, the Chief of Police denied the possibility of human conspirators. "Our best detectives believe this the work of magic, and it would be a disgrace to deny their expert opinion. Please, and this is said to our dear fellows, as the search continues on please keep vigilance for suspicious activities. If under threat of emergency, ring up the next operator and we'll keep things clean."  
>         When asked if the Flower Gang was involved, the Chief of Police (cont. on B8)

"C'mon," you mutter under your breath. The photograph attached to the story is a glamorous front shot of the Chief dolled up in a flashy uniform, with badges and epaulets on the sides. How he managed to find a tailor for his rectangular shape amazes you. You have a time of it searching for one to hem in your jackets. He has one that can change a human-sized suit into a giant square. Not for the first time, you think the world's an unfair place.

"yer patellin' me," says Sans, and your head shoots up.

"Wha?" you ask, blinking.

"the world ain't fair." He says it like it's common gospel. "never was."

He stares at you in that strange way you've become accustomed to over the past two years. It's similar to how BP looks when he thinks you can't see, a curious sort of fondness mixed with exasperation. You're not too sure of what it means — and why would a regular newspaper vendor care at all for a rude customer? — but you brush it off as you always do, put it away as another piece of the puzzle that makes up _Sans the skeleton_ in your mind. There's more important work to be done. There always is.

"Well, it's how it goes," you say vaguely, frowning at the thought. You sift through your coat's pocket for a few cents, a nickel for the paper. As you place it on the counter, a tiny hand lands atop the back of yours, pausing your movements.

You look up to find the newsie staring right into your eyes. Sitting on the counter, they're your exact height; it's uncanny how the deep brown irises cuts right through your hazel, as if the kid can beam an x-ray into your head. Very deliberately they shake their head, pushing the nickel in your hand towards your pocket.

"Hey now," you say, "I gotta pay. It's only right."

"naw. don't worry 'bout it, lady," says Sans. He glances between you and the newsie, smiling what seems like a private smile. "keep the change. paper's on the house tonight."

"Wait — what?" You stare at him in bewilderment.

"ya heard me." He plucks the newspaper from off the hanger and drops it on the counter, next to the kid. "go on. take it."

"But—"

"frisk's makin' a point," he says smoothly, as if he hadn't heard you, "an' i happen to agree with 'em. without cops like you runnin' 'round, chasin' baddies, there'd be no news to sell. so go ahead. my gift from me to you."

You squirm in your shoes. The two of them stare you down together, coordinated like the team you and BP dream of being. It's uncomfortable how overpowering their eyes are, their combined presence spinning your head around. The newsie gently nudges you hand away from the counter.

 _You can take it_ , they sign. _Isn't that what friends do?_

It's a lot harder to say no when the kid's got that imploring look on their face. Without realizing you grab the paper from the counter and tuck it under your arm. The crinkling sound it makes when you shuffle in place is satisfying to the workaholic in you.

"heh. guess we are friends then," says Sans slyly, his brows rising up and down. "never thought i'd see the day. good work, pal o'mine."

The kid grins. A sneaky dimple pops up near the edge. A _dimple_ , for gods' sake!

Feeling the red-hot beginnings of humiliation, your face scrunches up into a ridiculous grimace. How dare they con a cop! you think. Just because they were being nice to you, it didn't make it right! If anyone else had tried to pull that on you —

"I swear I'll get the two of you back," you hiss, thrusting an accusing finger into Sans's face first, then Frisk's. "Ooh, you — you bull-headed, two-bit —"

"not our fault yer a pushover," laughs Sans. He and Frisk share a high-five, then a low-five, then go around the world and back, sniggering like old women over the personals. The kid kicks at the air, doggy-paddling out to sea, with such enthusiasm you have to move away or risk getting hit in the gut.

You splutter incoherently for some time, though not for too long, until finally you let out huff and turn your back. Here you'd been hoping for some fresh air, and in the end all you got was teasing and a free paper. As you walk off to the station, Sans calls out to you: "good luck on the case, detective."

You don't realize until you're at your desk that you'd never mentioned the case to him at all.


	3. Caught in a Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make love, not war! That's what the monsters did.

||Tree Caught||

 

* * *

 

When you and BP were called to the Eastside for an emergency, and by the former Queen of Monsters of all people, you sure hadn't expected to find a crowd of monsters and humans surrounding a tree the size of a building. What was worse, it seemed even the former King was there, too, and an entire payroll of reporters.

Now, you're not an expert on royalty. Wealth, fame, authority — it's an enigma to you. You're just a working girl on the beat, looking out for the little guy, maybe sneaking some justice in on the side. The Chief soaks up attention like a dry sponge, so you've never had to contend with the paparazzi. And riches — ha! Jawbreakers are a delicacy. So you can't help but think you're in over your head.

"Great," mumbles BP, sidling a little closer. For all his acting aspirations, he's as camera-shy as a mirror. If he demonstrated half the athletic prowess he does dodging Polaroid shots in the station's gymnasium, he wouldn't be in several performance demerits deep.

You nudge him with your shoulder, feeling antsy. His nervousness is making you nervous. And frankly, you're not used to cameras either. Not that you'd ever admit it.

"This'll be fine," you mutter to him, and partly to yourself. You try to keep your walk steady and normal. "This'll be fine, no pressure."

"No pressure," BP chokes out, sounding like he swallowed a balloon.

You stroll down the block and glance around. Monster neighborhoods tend to look unusual, if not downright unbelievable. Magic's a powerful thing, capable of shaping buildings that are larger on the inside, and growing plants that glow like streetlamps, and creating bubbles of trapped heat and cold, where snow is year-round and lava isn't lethal. The truly creative monsters bring underground caverns up to the surface, or change the sky to a different color; the more enterprising sell their talents to contractors and expand storefronts and parking lots. You've seen a veritable smorgasbord of architectural hijinks in your time, and very few things surprise you anymore.

This part of the Eastside, however, is simply bizarre, even for monsters. It's called the Village, and it's supposed to be a small cultural ghetto for a specific, if numerous kind of monster, though why they are is way past you. The blue-bricked apartment buildings seem almost warped, as if they're trying to reach for you, and the sidewalk is littered in chalky stick figures, and the rooftops have draconic gargoyles crouched on the corners, as if in hiding. Above you the clouds seem a lot closer, looking like stuffed-up marshmallows. Cardboard boxes are strewn haphazardly along the streets, painted in stripes of blue and yellow, and the dark alleyways you pass contain what you assume is pieces of cut-up color paper. Even the signs are crazy, riddled with misspellings, nonsense numbers, and an unnecessary amount of exclamation points. One near the edge of the Village reads:

hOI!!!!!!  
welcom........  
to TEM!!!!

And you're not quite sure, but you feel like you're being watched.

Thankfully, the Village extends only to Memorial Park, smack-dab in the middle of the city. At the edge of the neighborhood you catch sight of the black wrought-iron gates and the massive, ancient trees covered in vines and golden flowers that are endemic to the area. When you're close enough, the crowd of onlookers move their attention to you two, their eyes guided to your pinned badges. An excited ripple of movement parts the crowd, and walking through it with an impressive stride are the King and Queen themselves.

The black and white photographs don't do them justice: Despite their advanced age, the two of them move with such purpose, such majesty, you feel clumsy in comparison. They're both a foot or so taller than you and BP, though the King's horns add several inches. Their white fur is the white of freshly fallen snow, pristine and well-groomed, and their red eyes shine like fresh blood under the sunlight.

The King wears an expensive three-piece black suit with a flower peeking out the lapel. His silver-tipped, trident-shaped cane matches the polished sheen of his dress shoes; he doesn't necessarily hobble with it, but he does seem to need it, compared to some rich fatcats who use them just for show. His lined and wrinkled face is sharp, his beard and hair gray, and his large hands clawed and with the barest of liverspots under the fur.

The Queen in contrast wears a royal purple dress that lays flat down to her ankles, where its obvious she's not wearing shoes. Her horns are small and rounded at the tip of her forehead, and her claws seem either absent or retractable. A pair of reading glasses are attached to a silver chain and hanging just above her bosom. Her long floppy ears are more obvious compared to the King's; they're so soft-looking, a part of you wants to reach up and pet them. The way she holds herself is with matronly grace, yet her kind smile is reassuring. It reminds you of a proud grandmother doting upon her grandchildren.

"Quick!" you mutter from the side of your mouth. You outwardly smile at their approach. "How do I address 'em?"

BP gives you a bewildered look from underneath his sunglasses. He's wearing his best customer service smile the Chief foisted on him; it's disturbing and smarmy, but you doubt you look any better. "Can't we say their names?"

"You can't call royalty by their names!"

"Why not?" He sounds close to panicked.

"I dunno, it's a rule! Think of — why, _hello!_ " Your face feels ready to peel from the way you've plastered on a simpering smile. "Uh, sir! Ma'am!"

The King and Queen look down their noses at you. It's unintentional; they're so tall up close, you'd have to be over six feet tall to speak with them evenly. The King has a wonderful grin that lights up his face. The Queen's close-lipped smile is a little more subdued, but the feeling in her eyes is just as warm. You feel thrown for a loop, their expressions are so damned genuine.

"Howdy!" says the King. His voice is a deep, reverberating bass. He extends a giant paw towards you, and it takes you a moment to realize what he's doing. It's the strangest feeling, having a man offer to shake your hand — human men certainly don't do it. The few monsters you've met formally merely said their greetings and avoided touch when they could help it.

"Er." You clear your throat and take his hand carefully. It's padded like a cat's and engulfs your own completely. You give it an experimental pump and shake, and it feels as though you're trying to lift a car.

"I am Asgore," he says, overlooking your slip-up. "I assume you two are the officers dispatched?"

"Yes?" you ask, before you mentally kick yourself. "I mean, uh, yes, we're the ones who were sent from the station — your majesty," you add hastily.

"Oh, please, do not stand on formality for my sake," he says, releasing your hand.

"And neither for mine," says the Queen, offering you her hand as well. Asgore and BP shake, though BP's hand moves far less than his whole body.

"Sure, that's fine," you say. Your smile relaxes into an easier grin. "I'm not much of a formal person, honest."

"Whatever you're comfortable with, officer," says Asgore. "Dear Tori and I don't wish to trouble you too much."

"You're both probably very busy," adds the Queen, after shaking BP's hand. "Ah — and you may call me Toriel. None of that royal nonsense, if you'd please. We've been retired much too long for it to apply."

BP straightens himself out and seems much less unsure than before. You can see the exact moment when he switches to his "grizzled ace" persona.

"No trouble, ma'am — Toriel," he says, his voice deepening to a scratchy smoker's growl. The angle of the sun hits his sunglasses just right, and his eyes are hidden behind the glass. "Just doing our jobs. Serving the public, saving our citizens. So, what seems to be the problem?" Like any good actor, BP keeps his props at the ready; he produces his notepad and self-inking pen and lines them up like a typewriter.

"Oh!" Toriel glances behind her to the interested crowd and the giant of a tree. Her eyes wander up into its considerable canopy. There are so many leaves and branches, the top-most part of the trunk is completely hidden from view. She turns back to you and her face falls.

"You see, it is one of my students," she says, her voice morose. She sighs. "I took my class for a trip around the park. A nature tour, if you will. I had thought it safe for education. But one poor student...well, I do believe you know where she is." To emphasize her point, she nods to the tree. BP writes this all down, for he knows better than to expect a good report out of you. "Gorey — excuse me, my husband and I, we've tried a number of methods..." She trails off.

Asgore wraps a hand around hers in a comforting manner, patting it gently. "A few good Samaritans tried climbing the tree," he continues for her, his brows furrowed, "and we've requested the fire squad's assistance, but they were quite busy on a day like this."

"A terrible time for it," says Toriel.

"Sure they do," BP says agreeably, "it's the summer heat, ya know?"

"Indeed," says Asgore. "We've asked to borrow equipment, ladders and the like, but no luck, I'm afraid."

"Not a one?" you ask suspiciously.

"No," says Toriel, a frustrated note creeping in. "And so I asked for my friend's help, but he too seems to be stuck in the tree."

"So there's two guys up there?" asks BP, brows raised. He looks at you, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to prevent laughing aloud. It would be poor business to call the Queen's friend a moron.

"Yes," replies Asgore. He's watching you now, his eyes gleaming. You think he's holding back his own laughter, if only for his wife's sake. "Our friend is not..." He struggles for words.

"He is not known for strenuous activity," finishes Toriel, rather lamely.

You hide a snicker behind a cough. The thought of a little old man napping in a tree is too much for you.

"So's we got," you say, pinching your thigh, "two of them in need'a rescuin'?"

"Precisely," says Toriel. Her eyes are pleading, and your heart melts. What can you do? You have a soft spot for the old folks. Call it filial piety, but you're not one to disrespect the elderly. And the Chief won't begrudge you over the time. In fact, if he knew what was happening, he'd be down at the church, rejoicing and singing hallelujahs.

"It's not a problem. Not at all." You brush off your jacket, readjust your badge, and roll your shoulders. Climbing a tree would be simple. "This'll be," you say with a confident smile, "a real walk in the park, ma'am."

Abruptly Toriel lets out loud bark of laughter that dissolves into girlish, undignified giggles, and you can only blush in embarrassment as she unravels under your pun. Asgore gives you an apologetic look as he makes hasty excuses, ushering her hunched form away. Even as they walk deep into the park, you can still hear her cries.

BP shakes his head and gives you the side-eye. "Didya mean to...?"

"I didn't, I swear I didn't!" you say, clawing at your hair.

 

* * *

 

A bad mood descends. Without a word to the clamoring reporters you shove them aside, muttering curses under your breath. Puns, you think furiously, should be illegal. Forget the booze — Prohibition has much more forgivable target.

Apologizing in your wake is BP, as always, yelling for silence, and please, questions later, official police business! You don't care at the moment. The Chief and his stupid publicity can go shove itself somewhere sacred.

When you reach the cleared-off trunk of the tree, you realize why the ladders were useless: the tree is incredibly tall, and magical too, judging by how much height it's gained in the short time you walked closer. Like monster architecture, its appearance hides the truth under smoke and mirrors. How a kid and an old man could even reach so high is beyond you. The stink of magic is all over this case.

"Hey," you say, glancing back at BP. He's surveying the tree as well. From the way his face scrunches up, you know he's reached the same conclusion as you. "Magic, yeah?"

"Plant magic," he sighs. He takes off his sunglasses and stows them inside his jacket. "Craziest kind there is."

"A'course it is," you say, shaking your head. Behind you is the sound of pens scribbling on paper and bulbs flashing. "How do we get up top?"

The base is as thick as you are tall, bark smooth and brown. The lowest branch is far above both your heads, around Asgore's considerable height. Even with a ladder you'd have to jump to grab at it.

"Not we," muses BP. He's got a thoughtful look, the kind he gets when he's moping with a cigarette. His left eye twitches. "I think," he says, sounding miserable, "I got an idea."

You raise your eyebrows. "Yeah? Let's hear it."

"Magic."

"If you're pullin' my leg —"

" _My_ magic," he says, and this time he does pull out a cigarette. After lighting up, he takes a deep draw. "I can get you up."

Your jaw opens and closes. Then you eye him carefully. "You've never shown off your magic before."

"It's humiliating," he murmurs around the butt. He practically inhales it as he drags in the smoke. For once his I-don't-care-anymore-please-shoot-me attitude is convincing. "I don't use it. Ever."

"You don't?" you ask, edging closer so the reporters won't hear. The first thing you learned on the job was how important magic was to monsters. It's as connected to them as, say, a hand or a leg would be for humans. How BP would go about avoiding his own magic is like wondering how an amputee gets around. "Never?"

"Never ever," he says. The bags under his eyes are distinct and dark. "Ever since I joined."

"What, the force?"

"Yeah." He stares up into the tree as he finishes off the cigarette. Then he pulls out another and begins again. "When I was green, fresh on with Mettaton." A visible shudder runs down his spine all the way to tail-tip. "I thought, _never again!_ You know?"

You remember your first day, way back when. Your expression is twisted, caught between a fond smile and a distorted grimace. "I hear ya."

"Yeah, well?" His voice pitches up and cracks. He waves a hand flippantly; his five fingers have shifted to three stubs. "If you can't handle the labyrinthine machinations of a psychotic, egotistical megalomaniac, what can ya do, huh?" And then he bends over his knees and looks ready to keel over.

You've never been one for feelings, anger and impulsiveness notwithstanding, but you suspect this is the part where he's going to break down if you don't get your act together. Awkwardly, you reach up and pat BP on the back in a way you hope is comforting. A silence descends on your twosome — excepting when BP laments about the choices he's made, his whole life is over and he has nothing to show for it, he should've never met his idol, because attractive people are no good stinkers — and for a minute you simply watch the tree, ignoring the reporters as they chatter amongst themselves. Amazing what nature can evoke, you think.

Soon enough, like it never happened, BP straightens and brushes off his coat, his eyes dry. He puffs out another cigarette before crunching it under his shoe. "All right. Fine, let's do it." He puts on his sunglasses, hiding his eyes, and steps towards the tree. The crowd whirs up again. "C'mere."

You step forward dutifully and let him position you just under the lowest branch. He pinches his thumbs and forefingers together, forming a camera out of his hands, and measures the distance. When he nods his head, done muttering to himself, he stands next to you and claps you on the shoulders.

"Ready?" he growls. His five o'clock shadow pulsates.

"Ready!" you growl back, bracing yourself.

And with that, his hands glow yellow, a dull beer-colored lemon, and suddenly you're launched high into the air, somersaulting head over rear, turning and turning, as though you're an Olympic diver, until you land hard on your hands and knees, like a cat from a fall. You peer over the side and then squeeze your eyes shut against the sudden rush of vertigo. When it passes, you look down again. BP and the reporters' heads are the size of your fingertips where you're perched.

 _His magic is flipping things?_ you wonder. And then you ask yourself if maybe, just maybe, he might've been a fry cook before the whole police gig. That would explain a whole lot of things about your partner. Including all the ketchup packets he has in his pockets.

The reporters of course are in a frenzy, their cameras and pads rising up like an ocean tide on the full moon. The little flashes of light disturb you; you turn instead to BP, who looks half-drowned in his sweat and ready to faint.

"You okay?" you shout at him, cupping your hands over your mouth.

He doesn't reply, merely sends you a trembling thumbs-up. You try smiling encouragingly, but it doesn't have the right effect: BP falls onto his back in a dead faint.

"Aw, damn," you breathe. Now you're stuck too. But life goes on, you think, and look up into the higher branches.

It's like a cave, only instead of rocks and darkness, there's thousands of leaves, branches, and sunlight that nearly blinds you. Tracing a curious finger on a nearby branch, you note the bark up here is as smooth as if it were shaved down by sandpaper. Taking a deep breath, you grab onto a sturdy branch overhead and haul yourself up, arm over knee, feeling thankful you wear pantyhose under your dresses.

At least you're not one to run at the thought of exercise. It's sweaty work, and rather heart-racing, since one slip of the hand or foot could land you in a lot of dirt. A broken limb would be the best outcome. Every few feet you give yourself a brief rest, because if there's at least one thing you've learned after joining the force, it's pacing yourself.

You don't want to think about where you learned that lesson.

Eventually, after what feels like a good twenty branches of climbing, you spot a white figure up in the distance. You can only see what seems to be a head, the rest of its body obscured by leaves. You assume it's the child, from the size of its form. Triumphant, you quickly scale the gap; before you lift yourself to the final branch, you take care to wipe the sweat off your face and right your dress. It's silly, but the Chief has rubbed off on you — can't let a child and your elder see you ruffled. You've got the role of the good guy to fill, and the heroes in the stories are never tired and undone by a measly tree. You paste on your best reassuring smile and swing yourself up.

"Hey there, little guy! It's time to go ho —" You stop when you realize what you're seeing.

"you sure took your sweet time, lady."

" _You!_ "

Sans the skeleton lazes back against the tree trunk, his grin widening as he watches you stumble clumsily onto the branch. Pretense gone, your jaw drops stupidly and your trembling finger is stuck between pointing accusingly at him, for being stuck in a tree in the first place, and you, for rescuing the guy you're trying to arrest. You splutter for a long while, sweating like it's raining, and you can't help but feel betrayed by the King and Queen.

"You — how do you know — why're you — how — _you!_ " The last is shrieked.

"me," he says evenly. He closes his eyes and leans back onto the crown of his skull. He's wearing his newspaper vendor outfit, the one you saw early this morning, the suspenders and slacks and rolled-up dress shirt. But he's missing his flat cap, and a few leaves stick out his visible collarbone.

The words form without thinking. "You've got something stuck..." You point it out on yourself.

He opens an eye. "huh? oh, yeah." He fishes the leaves out carelessly and winks at you. "thanks, pal. i didn't notice. you could say they were growing on me."

"I swear, if ya keep that up," you say, stone-faced, "stuck in a tree or not, I'm leaving." You pause. "Aw, _damnation_."

"you said it," he says, laughing quietly. He closes his eyes and sighs in content, as if he's on the beach rather than trapped in a magic tree.

Huffing, you settle into your seat and cross your arms. "Why're you here? How're you here?"

"hmm?" He shrugs. "tori said —"

"The Queen of the Monsters? Queen Toriel?" you say incredulously. Your voice is as unbelieving as you are. How could a sweet old lady be friends with a guy like Sans? " _That_ Tori?"

"yes."

"How're you friends with a _queen?_ "

"it ain't that hard."

"Really."

He shrugs again, if a little helplessly. "ran into her while i was a door-to-door salesman, way back when. my hook was tellin' knock-knock jokes, ya know, keep the customers yuckin' it up as they pay out the nose. imagine my surprise when i got her on the next knock." He whistles, long and low, as if in remembrance. "gotta hand it to her, she gave as good as she got. been friends for, oh, years now."

"Knock-knock jokes?" you ask, shaking your head.

"you could say i really knocked her socks off."

You drop your face into your hands, groaning. "Can't you take anythin' seriously?"

"you were the one who set me up. anyhoo," he adds, as if sensing your desire to throw him out the tree, "the ol' lady told me, go up and save a kid or else i'll get the cops, and once tori's got her mind set, you can't say no, exactly."

You frown. "Then how'd you —"

"shortcut." His smile has gone past smug all the way to maddening.

"A shortcut," you say flatly. "You took a detour. Up a tree?"

"yes."

"Magic, I reckon."

"correct." He doesn't elaborate, not even when you stare openly. "a magician never reveals their secrets," he says, shaking a finger.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to get a rein on your temper. Slow breaths. "So what you're sayin' is, you have no way down?"

"i never said that."

You jerk your head back. "What?"

"first rule, pal: don't start what ya can't finish." He winks. "though i guess that's the one rule cops don't follow, huh?"

You don't quite know what happens next, or what follows that moment, or after that; what you do know, however, is that when you snap to the present, you find yourself atop Sans, pinning him to the branch by his arms. Your faces are mere inches apart, yours hovering over his. His body is compliant, lax in your hold, as if he knew you wouldn't hurt him. But his eyes are a little different from usual, the pupils smaller by an infinitesmal amount — you could simply be imagining things, really, though you know you're not — and his grin is as pleased as the cat that's got the cream. And he's sweating, even though — and you're quite sure — that skeletons aren't supposed to sweat.

Yet you don't care about any of this. You've caught an elusive sneak, and you want answers.

"Where's the kid?" you say, voice low and rough. When he doesn't say anything, you glower menacingly. "The one you were supposed to save, ya hear me?"

"huh?" He blinks slowly, as if emerging from a daze. "oh, temmie? real loopy kiddo. yeah, saw her up near the top."

"The tip top?" you growl.

"one and the same," he replies. He shifts under your grip, but you hold tight, fisting the already messy fabric of his shirt. "hey, lady, uh, i can't exactly get this dry-cleaned."

"Shut yer yap," you mutter. You ignore him in favor of eyeing the rest of the branches above you. It took ten minutes just to climb to where Sans was; you don't know how your going to make it the rest of the way. And there's the matter of whether the tree will bear your weight when you're up there. "This's all bull."

"i'd call it a minotaur-rrential problem," says Sans, drawing your attention.

You don't snarl, per say, but the sound is very beastly and not at all appropriate for a proper young woman. Then again, you were never much for formality. "I've got half a mind to dust ya."

"nah, you wouldn't," he says, and he says it with such easy confidence you lean away, feeling very confused.

"You can't prove that." Your voice is a mix of hesitance and mild embarassment. After all, you'd jump an innocent, for all he seemed, and threatened to kill him. And it's not the first time you've done it.

"i'm good at guesswork."

You sigh. "Fine, ya win. But lay off the jokes. I've got a kid to rescue."

"no, you don't." Again, he says it very confidently, and again, you're as bewildered as before.

"What're you on?" you say suspiciously, giving his mouth a very tiny sniff. No booze, no opium, no magic haze. He's sober, but not sane. "What do ya mean, I don't got a kid —"

"kiddo's been out the tree since before ya got here."

"WHAT?"

"nice set of pipes." He shakes his head, then tips up his head. "yeah, she's long gone by now. probably at her stand in the village. real head on her shoulders. there's an entrepreneurial spirit if i've never seen it."

"She's — the whole time..." You stare at him aghast as the situation sets in. "You — why didn't you tell me, you husslin' bag'a trash? This whole — why, just why?"

"tori said to wait for the cops." He winks. "well, here ya are."

Feeling like your head's going to explode, you shove off him and move away. Jeez, but today's been a funny day. Next thing you know, Sans'll tell you he and the Queen were in cahoots, that there never was a child to save in the first place. If it weren't for the law, you'd be running for a stiff drink. A real stiff drink.

"You waited for me," you grit out from between clenched teeth.

"yes ma'am," he says. "so i guess ya could say you were rescuin' me."

"I'm rescuin' you," you repeat dully. Then you let out a miserable laugh. "No I'm not. I can't rescue nobody. My partner got me up here with his magic, an' he's outta commission." Probably literally, too, if the Chief knows what's up.

"heh, is that all?"

And suddenly, you're wrapped up in a gauzy white that takes over your vision. You're weightless, your feet floating in mid-air, your knees bent and your torso parallel to your legs. Then a shining blue light breaks through the white, and then yellow, and the green and brown of the world grows dimmer and duller.

"you wanna play the hero, lady?" says Sans, his voice strangely close to your ear. "well, let's give those saps a story to write about."

 

* * *

 

And so for the next few months, you're recognizable as the human cop who saved a skeleton from a tree. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabbles are a hundred words. Can't use that lie anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://bee-yoo-tiful.tumblr.com/) (if you want to submit a prompt)


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